


like romeo & juliet

by Areiton



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Mafia, Assassin Peter Parker, BDSM, Drug dealer Stephen Strange, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gentle Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Pining Wade Wilson, Possessive Tony Stark, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, Wade Wilson - Freeform, Wade Wilson is a Good Friend, Weapons dealer Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: It was a love story, he thought, sometimes.But then--he smiles at Tony, eyes bright, guilt wrapped tight where he couldn’t see it--Romeo and Juliet was a love story too.He thinks this, theirs, will be like that.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a love story, he thought, sometimes. 

But then--he smiles at Tony, eyes bright, guilt wrapped tight where he couldn’t see it--Romeo and Juliet was a love story too. 

He thinks this, theirs, will be like that. 

~*~ 

The city is ruled by two men, and fought over by those same two. 

The Merchant of Death, Tony Stark, who walked in the sunlight, barely bothering to cloak his crimes and agenda in the pretty package of his father’s company. He was, some said, untouchable--protected by his billions, by his name, by the government who needed him too much to stop the criminal underworld he ran. 

And the Doctor, who preferred the shadows, because that’s where the desperate, the hopeless and lost lived. 

That’s where  _ his _ people lived. 

The rest of the city murmured that Stark couldn’t be touched. 

Strange sat in his shadows, a pretty boy curled in his lap, and  _ knew _ he could. 

~*~ 

Sometimes Peter wonders what would have happened, if Tony had found him first. 

He thinks about it most when he’s laying in Tony’s bed, and he’s lying asleep next to him, one thick arm thrown over Peter’s waist, pinning him down and keeping him close. 

He hates himself, for wishing that Tony had. 

~*~ 

Stephen Strange didn’t find Peter, so much as Peter fell into his lap. 

The son of his favorite biochemist, the genius who made the ridiculously expensive drugs he used to control the streets, Peter was always in his orbit. 

Mary wanted to protect him, wanted to keep him away from the dirty, violent world they lived in. Strange didn’t even disagree. Peter was...special. 

He was lovely, lithe and fragile, pale and blushing and shy. He trembled under Strange’s heavy gaze, honey bright eyes wide and curious and impossibly naive. 

He was perfection and innocence and curiosity and Strange thought--

He was the perfect weapon. 

One no one would ever see coming. 

~*~

The Doctor was reclusive. 

Tony thinks he could have dealt with him, a long time ago--if he could just get him to step out of the shadows. But he  _ clung _ to them, and he moved like a goddamn wizard, almost materializing and disappearing. 

That wasn’t even the worst of it. Tony could handle that--one man was easy enough, even one as slippery as the fucking Doctor. But it wasn’t  _ just _ him. 

It was his pet assassins. 

The ones who slipped in unseen, killed without sound, and vanished without a trace. 

The ones Tony’s spies and tech and threats could not  _ find.  _

Strange wasn’t the problem--any petty druglord could be toppled with the right leverage--the problem was the killers who protected him.  

~*~

Peter sees Tony long before he ever meets him. 

Strange holds him, and Peter leans into his touch, pliant and warm and trusting. “See him, darling?” Strange whispers, and Peter watches the Merchant. 

He knows the stories, knows exactly who the beautiful man in his impeccable suit and scruff is. He isn’t exactly what Peter expects. Strange’s hand squeezes his waist, just enough to drag Peter’s attention back to him. “Darling,” he says, his voice sharp and demanding and Peter licks his lips, tastes the cherry gloss Strange likes on him so much. 

“Yes, Sir,” he says, obediently. 

Strange smiles, and presses a kiss to Peter’s throat, and Peter shivers, wishing they were home, they were in their big bed. Sir gives will give him a tiny dose of Silk, before he fucks Peter, just enough that everything feels slippery, hazy, the whole world has faded out, except the place Sir touches him, lights him up with pain and exquisite pleasure. 

He whines, high and needy and Sir laughs, presses his teeth delicately against Peter’s throat. “Darling, will you kill him for me?” 

Peter looks across the room, where Tony Stark stands smiling and beautiful and untouchable with his Captain and his Soldier, and he says, “Yes, Sir.” 

~*~ 

Stephen Strange looked at Peter Parker, a orphan boy, the sheltered, pretty child of his favorite chemist and saw a future unfold, and smiled. 

Peter would be the perfect weapon. The one that Tony Stark would never see coming. 

~*~ 

Peter watches Tony sleep, wrapped in silk and satin, and his lover’s heavy arm holding him close, and his fingers rub over the hilt of his favorite blade, the one he has used on so many of Sir’s enemies, before he slips back to Sir’s side. Those were easy. So easy. 

This--this is easy and terrible and perfect and impossible.  

He thinks, It’s a love story. But a tragic one. 

A love story like Romeo and Juliet. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, when Tony is moving in him, when his head is tipped back in pleasure and everything feels so  _ real _ and  _ alive _ , when Peter can barely  _ breathe _ through the pleasure and Tony rasps dirty and sweet in his ear, he thinks--this is real. This is everything. This is all I ever want. 

And he comes, like that, spills over silk sheets, Tony’s thick cock driving him open, greedy for the gasps and groans, the bitten off curses from him as he comes in Peter, hot proof spilling down his thighs and slicking his clef, reminding him of reality. 

~*~ 

Sometimes, when Strange drags Peter into his lap, slips a needle in his vein and Silk floods him, when the world goes hazy and slippery and the handcuffs lock him in a place and Sir makes him  _ sing _ , when his hands are strong and steady and hard but never cruel, never cruel--he whispers,  _ mine  _ and  _ perfect darling _ and  _ I will always take care of you, sweet boy _ \--when he fucks Peter with a dildo and fills his mouth with his heavy cock and Peter comes, just from that, from being full, so full, and his senses sing with that hazy lazy pleasure, he thinks--this is a dream. This is a dream, and I want to live in it forever. 

~*~ 

The first time Tony sees the boy, he’s sitting at the bar with a girl. She’s in red and her hair is twisted back, a lock falling in her eyes, and her smile is sharp and cynical. She is all sharp edges and strange beauty next to--

Him. 

The boy is laughing, and he looks--wrong. Perfect--pale and beautiful in his white sweater, the way it hangs off one shoulder that Tony wants to taste. 

But wrong too. Innocent and bright and pure in a bar that is too old and dirty and broken for him. 

“Who is he?” he asks and Happy hums under his breath. 

“Dunno, boss. Want him?” 

Tony does. He wants him in his bed, and on his lap, wants those shining eyes fixed on him the way that they are on his pretty, cold friend. 

“Get rid of the girl, Cap,” Tony murmurs and he doesn’t look away as his favorite Captain does exactly as he’s told. 

Five minutes later, when the boy glances around, alone and anxious, his eyes collide with Tony’s. 

The flush is beautiful, and Tony smiles as he stands to collect his prize. 

~*~ 

Peter. 

His name is Peter, and his smile is even sweeter when he’s perched in Tony’s lap, his hands light and trembling on Tony’s shoulders. His eyes are the color of sun-soaked honey and the flush on his cheeks crawls down his throat, hot and intoxicating under Tony’s lips. 

“Come home with me, angel,” he murmurs and Peter nods, hands clenching, reflexive and needy. 

“I’m going to take good care of you,” he whispers, before he kisses Peter. 

~*~ 

“I’m going to take good care of you,” Strange said, weeks after his mother died, and Peter watched him. He knew the Doctor. Even knew what the Doctor did, what his mom had done for him. 

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, quiet, head dipped toward the ground. 

Long trembling fingers lifted his chin, and dark, intense eyes stared into his. “Do you trust me, darling?” 

It was the first time Strange had called him that. First time he saw hunger spark in those dark eyes. 

“Yes, Sir,” Peter said, licking dry lips. 

Strange traced the movement hungrily and his smile was wolfish and dangerous and Peter--Peter had never felt safer. 

“We are going to be just fine, darling,” Strange purred, and pressed Peter deeper into his room, locked the door behind them. 

~*~ 

Tony is...gentle. 

It startles and confuses Peter. 

Startles because this is the Merchant of Death, a man with blood soaked hands and named and legacy. He isn’t  _ gentle.  _

Confuses because Peter doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Sir is only ever gentle like this when he is limp and shaking, and trembling hands free Peter and draw him close, press chocolate into his mouth, licks juice from his lips after Peter drinks. 

He doesn’t know what to do with gentle before pain. 

But the pain never does  _ come.  _

Tony is gentle. Patient, almost painfully so, his hands skimming over Peter’s skin, so light it’s almost torture, lips tracing after in a exploration so thorough, so  _ reverent _ , that Peter thinks maybe this  _ is _ the torture. 

Tony is gentle. 

It startles and confuses Peter and it is  _ intoxicating _ . 

It takes  _ hours. _

He comes the first time on Tony’s lips and tongue, after biting down his whines and pleas, when his lip is raw and red and he wails, “Please, please,  _ daddy please!”  _

“Shhh,” Tony coos, “shhh, angel, you’re ok. I’ve got you.” 

Peter sobs and Tony licks the crease of his leg and groin, bites, gentle gentle gentle. “What do you need, angel?” 

“N--n-need t-to come!” Peter almost screams the last word, his voice twisting into a groan that’s raw and dirty and Tony groans, presses it against his pale thigh. “Please, please, Daddy, please, let me--” 

“Come, baby,” Tony murmurs, “Come for daddy.” 

He comes, screaming, spills hot and messy across his chest, and feels Tony’s satisfied grin against his leg before he whispers, “That’s one.” 

Peter’s eyes roll back as Tony takes his spent, over-sensitive cock in his mouth, and thinks, bright and sharp and _real,_ _he’ll kill me like this._

~*~ 

He thought that, the first time Strange took out his cane. 

He thought it the first time Strange took out his sounds. 

He thought it and thought it and though it and every time, Sir would murmur, “Good, good, darling, so  _ good. _ ” 

And he’d come, gasping and desperate, and riding that hazy edge of pleasure and pain, and it never did kill him. 

~*~ 

He sits on Tony’s lap in the clubs as the Merchant does business, and watches through half-lidded eyes as the Captain and the Soldier move around them. He sees, sometimes, Strange, slipping through the shadows, silent and observant and overlooked. 

He feels a pang of worry for Tony even as he feels pride for Strange, and thinks--this could be a problem. 

~*~ 

Tony strings a necklace around his neck, a thin chain and tiny set of angel wings that rest in the hollow of his throat, and kisses him when Peter whispers his shy thanks.  

Strange watches from the shadows, and Sir’s eyes are so so cold, but Daddy is smiling, bright and loving and gentle, the way he only is with Peter. “Happy, baby?” he asks, presses the question to Peter’s throat like a prayer. 

Peter closes his eyes and wishes it was a lie when he says, “Yes, daddy.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Stephen Strange was called a wunderkind. A man who could look at a situation and see all the possibilities, spin them out and pick the best to suit his needs. 

He always liked that about himself. 

So, when he looked at the dirty underbelly of his city and saw the sway that Tony Stark and his empire held--he chose another path. 

He built his own empire, in the same streets and bloody paths that Stark had claimed, and did it so well, so carefully, it was done before Stark even noticed, and by then it was far too late for him to be stopped. 

~*~ 

Peter likes soft things. 

He likes oversized sweaters that hang off his shoulder, puddle around his thighs. He likes skinny jeans when he’s dancing and leggings at home and lace skirts when Tony takes him out. 

He likes cherry lip gloss when Strange kisses him and black leather when he slinks at Sir’s side, and fluffy blankets piled into a nest on Sir’s bed, while Silk slides through his veins. 

He likes soft things, and whisper soft kisses and Strange’s hard, possessive touch. 

~*~ 

The boy was too soft. 

Strange adored him, but there was this, too--Peter was a tool, a beautiful tool that would burn the Merchant and his empire to the ground. But he was too soft. 

“He’ll break, like this,” Strange murmured, and Wong tilted a look at the Doctor, curious and cautious. 

“He’ll shatter.” 

Strange watched him, watched the hungry looks sent his way, the way Peter’s fingers curled around his fork, his sweet smile slipping just a little. 

“Interesting,” he said, and smiled, cold and pleased. 

~*~ 

Peter kills for the first time a week later, scream still trapped in his throat, a big, intrusive hand in his pants, the body slumping on him and painting him in red. 

He’s sobbing and shaking, and screams again, when he crawls from under his attacker, screams as he kicks the dead man over and over, until Strange wraps strong arms around Peter and draws him back, into his embrace. 

“You’re alright, darling,” Strange promises. “You are so brave. So perfect, darling.” 

Peter trembles and sobs, soft and silent, and he never does release the grip he has on his little knife. 

~*~ 

Peter wakes slowly, that first morning with Tony, and the only thing he registers is that nothing hurts, and everything is almost painfully bright. 

He takes a careful breath, flexing his fingers against the sheets, and beside him, Tony moves. 

Peter blinks, looks at the other man with startled eyes and a hesitant smile. “You’re still here,” he whispers, and Tony puts a hand on his hip, draws him careful up to straddle him and smiles up at the dazed, sleepy boy. 

“Of course, angel,” Tony says, and pulls him into a lazy wet kiss that makes Peter’s toes curl. 

Later, he dresses Peter in his shirt and sits the boy on his lap, feeds him from his own plate while Peter blushes under his heavy, hungry gaze.

~*~ 

Strange gives hims blades. 

He brings Peter home and tucks him into his bed, and brings him the head of the man who tried to rape him, his eyes a burning kind of cold and even though Peter killed him, seeing Strange’s hands on it settles something in him. 

And then come the blades. Small and bright and sharp, Strange produces rows and rows of them, and each is lovely and deadly. 

Peter pricks his finger on one with a wickedly curved hook to it, and he stares at Strange, uncertain. 

“Let me teach you, darling--so that never happens again.” 

~*~ 

Strange smiles when Peter’s tension melts away and he smiles, and nods. 

~*~ 

The first time Tony hears about Strange’s Spider, he’s killed Harley, the kid Tony has just brought into the company. He shows promise, has a plan to open the drug trade and edge out the Doctor--and then he’s dead, and there’s no trace at all. 

The Spider is clean, slips in and out unseen, kills with almost no bloodshed, with just enough poison that there’s no doubt who the assassin was. 

Harley isn’t the first the Spider killed in Tony’s organization. But he’s the one Tony cared about, the one that made him demand answer. 

But Strange is a slippery shadow and the more Tony searches, the more he realizes, the Spider is even more difficult to pin down. 

~*~ 

Tony gives him lace panties. 

He gives him cashmere sweaters, leggings so soft they feel like a cloud. He wraps Peter in blankets and draws his boy onto his lap as his Captain and Soldier argue, and Peter dozes there, the softness and Tony’s hand, carding through his hair, lips pressed against his forehead, soothing him to sleep. 

“Why are you so kind to me?” Peter asks, once, dragging his eyes open. 

Tony smiles at Peter, kisses him and murmurs, “Because I love you, angel.” 

~*~ 

Peter doesn’t understand Tony’s version of love. 

Strange loves him. 

Strange gives him Silk, gives him bruising kisses and a heavy grip on his hips, gives him weapons to protect himself, and poison so his attackers never see it coming, and all he asks in return is the occasional homicidal favor. 

Sir saved him, and loves him, and he doesn’t understand love that can be  _ kind _ and selfless. 

~*~ 

One night, almost three months after Tony dragged Peter into his lap in the back of his car, someone forgets. 

Maybe they didn’t know. But they  _ forget _ , who Peter is. Who he belongs to. 

Peter slips away from Bucky on the dance floor of Tony’s favorite club, catches his lover’s eyes and smiles, dismissive, as he heads for the bathroom. 

The man comes from nowhere, his breath hot and rancid in Peter’s nose, scrambling for his pants as he pants, “Your Daddy can’t save you. He won’t save my company, why the hell  should he save you?” 

Peter’s grin goes feral, and his fingers close over his favorite dagger--

Tony slams into the man, so sudden that Peter doesn’t actually understand what’s happening until Tony starts hitting him. 

Peter can feel the other man’s touch, still, bruising and hot and  _ wrong _ and he shudders, watching Tony hit him. 

He doesn’t stop for a long time. 

~*~ 

Tony comes to him, blood on his knuckles and splattered on his face, and gives him cashmere and morning cuddles, and  _ protection.  _

Strange comes to him, eyes cold and demanding, and gives him knives and poison and the cold belief that Peter will use them, will know  _ how _ to use them. 

He thinks it’s odd, that he’s spent so much of his life, living up to the standard of what Sir wanted. 

He watches Tony from the breakfast bar, nibbles on his fruit, and wonders at the difference in the two men he has loved. 

~*~ 

He holds Strange’s knife and trust, hold’s Tony’s heart and hand, and he has no idea what to do. 


	4. Chapter 4

Stephen Strange saved his life.

He knows that, knows that so much of his love for the man is adoration and loyalty for saving him.

Peter is young and he is naive, but he isn’t  _ stupid. _ But he  _ does _ love Strange, in his way. He knows how dangerous the Doctor is, knows he has killed hundreds and ordered more deaths than that.

But when Strange drapes his arm around Peter’s waist and pulls him through the dark   
clubs, when he sits Peter at his left hand meetings with his captains--Peter can’t help but think that as strange as their story is--it’s also real. 

There is love, there.

~*~

It’s different with Tony.

His adoration is there in every thing he does, in the gifts he showers Peter with and the way he watches Peter when the boy is dancing, in the hands, big and possessive and so gentle it makes Peter  _ ache _ , careful as they cradle Peter like he’s fragile and precious. 

Tony’s dangerous, but it’s a distant kind of thing, something Peter forgets when Tony spins him around town, his name and money opening doors to a world of experiences Peter had never dreamed of.

Tony takes him to musicals and the ballet, takes him to museums and Galas, takes him on his private jet, to a private island in the Caribbean, to Tokeyo and London and Paris, and each door he opens, he watches Peter like he can’t imagine being anywhere else, but here, right here with his beautiful boy.

It’s intoxicating, heady in ways that Strange isn’t.

Strange loves him and uses him, teaches him just how dangerous and valuable Peter can   
be.

Tony loves him and spoils him, teaches him just how precious and treasured Peter is.

~*~

He knows that Strange is toxic, as bad for him as the drugs he peddles, as bad as the Silk he fills Peter’s veins with.

He  _ knows. _

But when he thinks about it too long, he thinks of this too.

A dark room, and a sixteen year old orphan, crying.

A man with scarred shaking hands sitting nearby, never speaking, but always present.

A life that slowly expanded, as months crawled away and grief lost it’s sharp toothed grip—but no matter where in that oversized Sanctum that Peter wandered, he could always count on Strange to be close.

Once, he heard someone talking about his mother, spitting insults and disgust, and his face crumpled, hurt spiking so sharp and sudden he couldn’t breath.

Before he could plunge into the truly vicious panic attack that was yanking at his feet, Strange was moving, neatly wrapping a garrote around the dealer’s throat.

It happened so quietly, the only sound was the dealer’s heels, drumming against the polished wood. Then he was dead, and Strange was tucking Peter to his side, and taking him back to his quiet room, holding him close and humming quiet reassurances.

Peter felt  _ safe _ with him.

No one ever did speak ill of his mother in front of him again. And for three years, he was Strange’s favorite, the untouched pet that was spoiled and shadowed and watched but never touched.

It ended four years ago now, when Peter was nineteen. The day he killed for the first time—

That changed.

~*~

Strange is quiet and efficient, terrifyingly so, when protecting Peter, and just as willing thrust him into danger. 

_ (will you kill him for me, darling?) _

Sir expected obedience and rewarded it with that pretty haze, the bite of pleasure pain.

Tony…

Tony is different.

Tony has always been different, not quite what Peter expected. From that moment he rested in Strange’s arms and studied the Merchant of Death from across a crowded room, Peter knew Tony was different.

~*~

Tony is loud, exuberant and exasperated.

He wears his emotions on his sleeve, so alive it’s exhausting to watch him.

Peter realizes, slowly, that Tony is wearing a pretty lie, a quiet distraction. It works as well as Strange’s mysterious aloofness, but sometimes, seeing it, the big smile, the shaded sunglasses, the suit he wears like armor and the cocky smirk he never gives Peter—it digs and cuts at Peter.

It makes the moments when he takes Peter to bed, and all of the performance is stripped away, leaving only Tony, his eyes wide and awed while Peter rides him, tiny broken noises slipping from him—

It makes those moments so much sweeter.

~*~

It makes the reality of what Peter is, what he’s here for, so much harder.

~*~

“It’s been two months, darling.”

Strange isn’t mad. He’s coldly distant and it makes Peter whine, leaning in to press a kiss to his throat. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You know why you’re there,” Strange says, his hands coming up to frame Peter’s hips, tight enough that he’ll have bruises.

Peter wonders if they will blend in with Tony’s, and shivers at the thought, both of them branding him with their claim.

“Can you do this, darling?”

Peter hesitates.

He knows he can say no.

That he can shake his head, and Strange will sigh and pet his hair and kiss him—and take him home, away from Tony and his adoration, and send someone else in his place.

He wonders if it will be the little princess Strange is so very fond of, or the mischievous trickster.

He knows someone will be sent.

Strange wants Tony dead.

It does not  _ have  _ to be by Peter’s hand—but it will be done.

“Darling,” Strange prompts, his tone dipping toward severe and Peter blinks. Leans in and kisses him, a kiss that tastes of cigars and scotch, presses it to the dry warmth of Strange’s lips, the chemical tang of his latex gloves.

His two lovers, pressed in a kiss that felt like a promise and a lie.

“I can do it,” he says, softly. 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Peter sprawls in Tony’s lap when he hosts his meetings, while the Captain and the Solider talk profit and murder and demand.

He’s a familiar fixture, tucked under Tony’s heavy arm in his pale pinks and blues, his lips wrapped around a red sucker, his eyes half-lidded as he giggles at his phone, ignoring everything around him. Sometimes he’ll lean into Tony, squirm a little for attention—the meetings always end pretty quickly after that, Tony standing and dismissing them as he turned his pretty pet toward his private rooms, and Peter’s attention, bright as a sun, finally shifted from his phone to the man who held him.

Once, during a phone conference with a weapons dealer in California, Peter had quietly ridden Tony’s thick thigh, his breath hitching in his throat, Tony’s hands moving his hips gentle and inexorable. Captain and Solider had politely averted their eyes—Tony might be willing to allow Peter his little exhibitionist streak, but he wouldn’t let anyone see his boy falling apart.

He was, within a week of warming Tony’s bed, a familiar presence, one smiled at and catered to and quickly dismissed.

Peter hid his smile in Tony’s throat, pressed gentle kisses there, and _listened._

~*~

He was sixteen when his mother died, and Strange took him in, and seventeen the first time Stephen showed him the labs.

Peter took to it like a duck to water, peppering the chemist with questions, poking at their formulas and work while Strange watched with patient, knowing eyes.

Later, when Peter was brimming over with questions, Strange smiled at him, slow and pleased, and told him everything he wanted to know.

He was seventeen when he stepped into Stephen’s labs, seventeen when Strange gave him the keys to the kingdom, seventeen when he crafted his first drug.

He was seventeen when Strange smiled at him, eyes cold and knowing, sitting at his side in a meeting, his ward a familiar sight there, and easily dismissed, and Peter realized how powerful being underestimated could be.

~*~

“Daddy,” he asks, one night after Steve and Bucky have vanished into their wing of Tony’s tower, and Peter lies on their bed, Peter’s fingers twisting in his hair, a thoughtful look on his pretty face.

He’s naked, except the satin panties Tony is mouthing at, just the way Daddy likes him. “Daddy,” he says again, tugging lightly on Tony’s hair, dragging the man’s attention up up up.

Tony frowns, but it’s petulant more than anything and Peter wonders, not for the first time, what his many underlings would think, if they could see him like this.

And that thought is quickly followed by the flash of furious jealousy, that _anyone_ might see Tony like this.

“What, baby boy?” Tony asks, his voice soft and husky.

Peter licks his lips, and asks the question he knows he could be killed for, “Why don’t you deal? Why is it just weapons?”

Tony’s expression goes dark.

~*~

Once.

When Peter was eighteen, after he had crafted Flash and Mayfire, after he was comfortable with Sir and his new role as Sir’s favorite sub, as the one who took Sir’s frustration. The one who rubbed pungent ointment into trembling fingers—

After all of that, he asked, “Why do you hate the Merchant? Can’t you work together?”

Sir had gone still, his eyes cold and dark, not the way Peter was used to, but the way he looked, just before he killed someone for crossing him.

Peter shivered, coiling in on himself.

“He’s a fucking wardog,” Strange snarled and Peter bit his lip. “I would burn my practice to the ground before I worked with Tony fucking Stark.”

~*~

Bucky tells him.

It comes out one night when Tony and the Captain have gone to do a demo for a new buyer, and Bucky sits with Peter, painting his nails clumsily, when Peter asks.

The Merchant doesn’t permit drugs in his people, and its so familiar, so _common_ with Strange that the disparity niggles at Peter.

“There was a woman,” Bucky says, slowly. Reluctantly. When Peter smiles sweet and pleading and he can’t quite resist. “He loved her.”

Peter sees red, for just a moment, and Bucky flashes that smile that’s soft and charming, and hides away the assassin and sniper Peter sees every day. “He _did¸_ doll. You’re all boss has eyes for now.”

Peter flushes, but it settles something, reassures him.

“What happened?”

Bucky shrugs, but his eyes died. “She took something. A new line from the Doctor—Quicksilver. It killed her.”

Peter barely keeps his flinch contained, barely keeps his shock off his face. Bucky’s smile is sweet and sad. “Pepper was always going to die with a needle in her arms. She’d been strung out on Silver and coke and Flash since before I joined the company. She got hooked on Timeslip and never really got clean.”

“Mr. Stark blames the Doctor,” Peter murmurs.

It makes sense.

Peter isn’t even sure he’s wrong.

~*~

Strange never does tell him, why he hates Stark.

He doesn’t need to.

Peter reads about it, about the accident, and the Stark Industry weapons found on scene. He’d been driven off the road by one of Tony’s shipments.

His career as a surgeon, stolen away. He’d rebuilt himself—Strange always would, Peter knew. Too damn stubborn to do anything else.

But he’d never forgive Stark for stealing the life he loved.

No wonder, Peter thinks, no wonder he wants Stark dead.

~*~

He turns the knowledge over in his head, flips it and examines it, and finally, finally, calls Sir.

“Did you lie to me?” he asks, his voice shaking, and cool silence greets him.

“Did Quicksilver kill anyone?”

There’s a silence, different now, guilty and thick and Peter closes his eyes. Blinks back furious tears. “You _promised_ ,” he whispers harshly.

“Darling,” Strange begins and Peter hangs up, his stomach churning.

~*~

It hadn’t been ready.

Peter _told_ Strange, the drug wasn’t ready.

Strange kissed him, fingers tight on his jaw and took it anyway.

A week later, he cancelled production and distribution of Quicksliver and took Peter to bed, gentle in a way he never was with Peter.

“Sir?” Peter whispered, as Strange kissed him, traced the blue vein down from his elbow to his wrist. He ached for Silk, for that hazy numbing pleasure before Sir began.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Strange pressed to his wrist, and then he took Peter, slow and sweet, like he never had before or since.

He took him, and Silk sat tucked in it’s tiny box, untouched, next to the bed.

~*~

Peter sits in Tony’s lap and listens, learns everything he can about the company he’s supposed to deliver to Sir.

He kisses Daddy’s cheek and is rewarded with bits of chocolate fed to him by thick calloused fingers, and he chased memories of a woman with bright red hair and sharp eyes, a smile dulled by drugs.

He killed her.

Strange killed her.

And Peter has no idea what to do now.

~*~

He loves Sir.

He always has, even through the lies and the manipulations.

He loves Sir and that has always been the leash that kept him at the Doctor’s side.

~*~

_We can’t last_ , he thinks, desperate and despondent.

_We were doomed when Pepper picked up that needle._

~*~

He loves Sir.

The problem, the crux of the problem, is that he loves Daddy, too.

 


	6. Chapter 6

On their three month anniversary, Tony takes him to Berlin.

He has business there, meeting someone Soldier worked for, before he came to Tony and Stark Industries. But they go because Tony can’t resist taking his boy away for a holiday.

Peter clung to him as Tony showed him Berlin, the ancient city and the glittering nightlife, while they danced, Tony’s hands low and possessive on his hips, dragging Peter to writhe against him on the dance floor and he drifted on a delicious haze like the one Silk gave him, but this high was Tony, Tony, just Tony.

He clung to it, clung to Tony and licked into his mouth when Tony kissed him, licked the taste of champagne and wine away and forced away the thought of Sir and his quiet, cold displeasure.

~*~

The Merchant, Sir told him, long before Peter ever saw Tony in that crowded ballroom--the Merchant liked pretty things.

He liked to be adored, and he adored showing off, parading the newest pretty toy in front of all the other boys in class.

Sir said it in a tone that dripped disdain, that said the Merchant was a child, playing childish games. He never bothered showing off--Peter was _his_. No one would dare touch him, and there was no need to flaunt what no one could touch.

Still.

As Sir spoke, and Peter listened. He considered what it might be like, to be the pretty spoiled toy of a man like Tony Stark.

He thought it must be intoxicating.

~*~

Peter _likes_ being wanted.

He liked it, the first time he saw Sir’s eyes go dark and his hands tremble a little more than normal.

He likes it, seeing Daddy’s eyes narrow and his mouth tighten and hunger light up his face, likes the way he can’t stop touching, the way he murmurs filth and promises in Peter’s ear, and runs reverent fingers over Peter’s lace and silk and presses careful kisses to the corner of his lips, careful not to smudge his makeup.

He likes the way Soldier and Captain watch him, like the way Strange’s favorites eyed him with hungry envy.

He _likes_ being wanted.

It was always the problem with using Tony’s weakness against him.

~*~

“Where were you, baby?”

Tony is watching him, lazy and indulgent, and Peter smiles, rolls to kiss him. “MJ wanted to go out,” Peter says, light and easy, the way he does every time he vanishes from Tony’s bodyguards and slips back to Strange, slips into his bed and cold unhappiness.

Strange is getting impatient, and Tony—Tony’s smile slips, just a little, something complicated and hurt in his eyes.

For a heartbeat, Peter is still, utterly, unbreathing, his fingers tight and aching and empty, longing for his tiny dagger.

For a heartbeat, Peter is afraid.

Then Tony kisses him, and smiles. “Don’t like you going out alone, baby. It’s dangerous. One of the Doctor’s men attacked one of my shipments, yesterday. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

“Was everyone ok?” Peter asks, worry coating his tone.

He always worries.

He never knows how the information he feeds Strange will be used, who it will hurt. So he worries, and waits, and he shivers, tucked against Daddy’s side, when Tony rages and fumes, and quietly grieves the men who die.

~*~

“What is taking so long?” Strange snarls, and Peter—

Peter doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t pull away from him.

He tips his head up, looking at Sir and asks, “Did you use Quicksliver?”

Strange pauses, this tiny hitch in motion that gives away everything. Peter’s expression tightens. “You swore, Stephen. You _swore_ no one took it.”

“It happened years ago—”

“It killed Tony’s fiancée. Did you know that? You want him dead because his trucks caused your accident. And that was an _accident._ But he hasn’t put a hit out on you—and your drug killed the love of his life.”

Strange drifts closer, and runs a finger gently down the side of Peter’s face. “My drug? Darling. Do you forget who created Quicksilver? Because I don’t.”

Peter stares at him, his eyes wide and furious and Strange smiles at him, gentle and implacable. “Kill him, darling. Do it by the end of the week.”

“And if I don’t?”

Strange leans in and kisses him, softly.

“If you don’t, I’ll send in the Widow. And she’ll kill you both.”

~*~

“Sir,” Captain says, gently.

Tony closes his eyes, clenches his hand and inhales slowly. “There’s an explanation,” he says, simply.

“The explanation is Peter belongs to Strange, boss,” Captain says.

It’s there.

The evidence of Peter’s lies, the evidence that MJ—the pretty girl he’d first seen Peter with—was one of Strange’s dealers and enforcers.

The evidence that all pointed to what he didn’t want to believe, couldn’t believe.

“Boss,” Rogers starts again, and the Soldier makes a quieting noise in his throat.

Tony looks at him, at the man who tried to kill him, once, who he and Rogers managed to rehabilitate and shape into one of his best, most loyal tools.

“Peter loves you,” Bucky says. “Maybe he’s lyin’. But he’s not lyin’ about that. Talk to him, before you act.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Rogers snaps, glaring at his lover.

“I’m not killing him without knowing the truth. From him,” Tony says, his voice brooking no argument.

Rogers glares, but he doesn’t protest.

They go, and leave Tony there, alone, with pictures of Peter a step behind the Doctor, dressed in black and scarlet, at ease in the other man’s presence. He’s younger in the pictures. But it’s Peter.

“Please don’t make me kill you, baby boy,” Tony murmurs into the dark room.


	7. Chapter 7

When Peter is eighteen, he kills for Sir.

There is a moment, when he stands behind the woman holding a gun to Sir--when he doesn’t want to.

When he wants to turn away, wants to slide Silk into his veins and hide.

He doesn’t.

Sir is standing there, his eyes steady and the gun unwavering and there is this--

A quiet boy with bright eyes and a brilliant mind, that no one ever looks at.

Sir looks. Sir watches him, not the gun or the screaming Christine, just him, his gaze quiet and calm and confident.

Peter moves before he ever decides to, slips silkily forward, and brings his knife up, slides it deep in her back, between her ribs and hears the breath catch as he punches through skin and muscle and into her lungs.

She makes a noise, again, when he slides his pretty dagger across her throat, and he feels the hot rush of blood over his hands, before she topples, and he stares.

Not at the dead woman or the shining gun.

He stares at Strange, and the bright pride in his beautiful eyes.

~*~

Tony hated the Spider.

He built his empire on tech and knowledge, on weapons that could kill with stealth or with a bang, that could kill _anyone_.

But no one could kill the Spider.

No one could even _find_ the Spider. He hid behind Strange, cloaked in anonymity and shadows, but after his first bloody kill of the Doctor’s ex-wife—his body count grew at a staggering rate. He killed to protect Strange—there was one ambush where Strange was riding in his private car with a boy and the Red Witch, and they were attacked at a routine traffic stop. Later, Tony watched the playback of the hit he’d ordered, but there was nothing to find.

The cops dropped behind the car, while the nameless boy and the Witch were frisked and Strange stood, patient in his cuffs.

There’d been no use of weapons, Tony _checked._

Later, JARVIS said there was traces of toxins on the cops hands, the lips of one.

For a long time, Tony thought the Witch was responsible.

But so often when the Spider struck, Wanda Maximoff stood at Strange’s side, visible and public while his secret killer did his dirty secret work.

“I want him dead,” Tony snarled and the Captain nodded.

“Set a trap,” Tony ordered, even though he knew it was futile.

The Spider had never been caught on camera. They were flawless, neat clean assassinations that left behind zero trace of the killer.

The only time—the _only_ time that pattern failed, when the Spider’s bite was vicious and cruel, was with Christine. And when a dealer from the Wakanda family made a clumsy attempt on Strange’s life.

The Spider bathed in their blood, both times.

It said something, about him, Tony thought. It said the Spider was loyal. He belonged, heart and soul, to the Doctor.

~*~

Peter finds Tony in his workshop, bent over an upgrade on the Soldier’s arm, and a smile teases his lips.

“You should come to bed,” he says, softly, pressing a kiss to Tony’s sweaty shoulder.

“Later,” Tony says, shortly and Peter goes still. He let’s go only when Tony makes a noise of discontent, shrugging away and Peter is left, hands fisted in his shirt, pale faced and worried.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, softly and Tony flicks a look at him.

“Of course not, Pete,” he smiles, forced and false and Peter’s stomach dips and spins.

_He knows._

“I’m just not sleepy. Go on to bed, I’ll be along soon.”

“Can I stay?” he asks, soft. He doesn’t like sleeping without Tony, too used to the heavy weight of the older man next to him, the arm that pins him to the bed.

He’s fallen asleep here, often enough, dozing on the couch after tinkering with his own projects only to wake when Tony lifted him and carried him to their bed.

“Please, Daddy?” he asks, when Tony hesitates, and the expression on his face softens, just a little.

Just enough. He sighs and give a short little nod. “Ok, baby.”

Peter smiles, and the tension—it doesn’t go away.

The fear in his gut doesn’t dissipate. But he goes, and curls up on the couch and turns it over in his head.

Sir’s threat.

Daddy’s anger.

And an order he has no idea how to refuse and less idea how to follow.

~*~

He isn’t surprised.

Sir _told_ him, and he isn’t surprised.

They’re out, at a museum that Tony had thought Peter would like. Peter is in a pair of skinny jeans and one of Tony’s button downs open and billowing over the lace edged camisole he wore under it. He looks pretty and helpless, standing tucked to Tony’s side, a smile on his painted pink lips, and Tony’s hand possessive on his hip.

They’d just reached the steps to the museum, Happy pulling away in the Audi, when it happened.

Peter’s head snaps up when he sees the flash of red curls, and then he _shoves_ Tony, pushes him down and away, as the throwing daggers sling through the air where Tony had been standing.

“Pete,” Tony gasps, and Peter reaches for the cuffs on his wrists, the ones he always wore, plain black bands.

Sticky white fluid drips free, oozing down his palm and Tony’s eyes go wide as Peter darts away from him.

It happens quick.

Too quick, or maybe it’s just that his head is still spinning from being thrown to the ground. Peter and a red-head are fighting on the sidewalk, and then—

She snarls as he smears the white fluid on her face, spits a curse at him, and Peter laughs, this noise Tony doesn’t recognize,  and drags a blade across her throat.

She makes a choked noise, and blood sprays, a hot rush of it staining his camisole and white shirt, his faded jeans, and pooling around his sneakers.

“Tell the Doctor to back the fuck off,” Peter says, cold and remote, and Tony has a second to wonder who the hell he’s talking to before Peter plucks a earpiece from the dead girl’s ear and drives his bloody knife through it.

Tony stares at him, and he’s aware, distantly, of sirens, aware of Steve and Bucky tugging at them, but he’s mostly staring at the boy he’s fallen in love with.

“You’re the Spider,” he whispers and Peter—

Peter turns and vanishes into the crowded street.


	8. Chapter 8

There is a place, in Queens. A place the Doctor doesn’t know about, a place the Merchant never had reason to know about.

It’s a quiet, neat little apartment. On one side, there is a scarred veteran who waters the plants, when Peter can’t come by.

He goes there, the world going hazy and soft around him, Natasha’s blood still on his hands. He wishes he hadn’t had to kill her. She helped train him, taught him to use his little knives in the exquisite dance that left so many dead.

She was following orders--he knew she was. Strange had warned him.

He can feel shock settling in, the adrenaline draining away and leaving his hands trembling where he holds the keys.

A door opens and he feels someone moving next to him, and he brings up his knife, quick, but not quite quick enough.

Wade catches his wrist and twists the blade away. Peter makes a desperate noise, and he sighs, catches the boy as he crumples, and carefully unlocks the door. “Come on, Spider-baby. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Peter makes a quiet noise of protest, that Wade ignores as he manhandles the younger man into the apartment, and starts stripping him of his bloody clothes, his hand brusque but gentle.

~*~

_“Tell the Doctor to back the fuck off.”_

He plays the message again, Peter’s voice sharp and furious, the kind of cold he only ever got when he was truly angry.

Strange played it again.

_“Tell the Doctor to back the fuck off.”_

The room is quiet. Michelle is sitting a few seats away, her sharp gaze narrowed on him. Ned is quiet, anxiety rolling off him. The Witch is watching him, a tiny smirk curling up her lips. “The Spider stings the hand that feeds him,” she almost purrs.

“I suggest,” Strange says, his voice cool and bland, “if you want to avoid being the next bloody body to drop, you keep your opinions about my Spider to yourself.”

Her eyes widen, and Wong shifts. “You can’t--”

Strange twists, raises an eyebrow at him. Almost daring him to continue.

Wong closes his mouth, not willing to challenge the Doctor in front of others.

Not over Peter.

“Loki,” he murmurs, and the trickster straightens with a grin so cold Strange fights down his shiver.

“Find him for me, would you?”

Loki yawns and stands, already texting his brother. Thor _likes_ hunting, even if he doesn’t have the subtlety Loki has. “Do you want him alive?” Loki asks, and the entire room holds its breath.

_“Tell the Doctor to back the fuck off.”_

He can still see the pictures of Natasha, sprawled bloody on the museum steps.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I want to crush the Spider myself.”

~*~

He can hear Wade moving around the apartment when he wakes up. There’s a gap--a fuzzy picture of what happened last night, after he stumbled into his apartment under Wade’s firm, careful hands.

He’s in a shirt and boxers, and he wonders if he did that himself, or if Wade did it.

He remembers Wade calling him _Spider-baby_ , remembers the icy clench of fear that came with the gentle endearment, and it roars back now, sharp and bracing.

His gun is on the dresser, and he checks it quickly before he dresses in jeans and a t-shirt before padding into the living room.

There’s food on the table, and Wade is sitting in the corner, far from any weapons or his phone, his eyes tired as he watches Peter.

“You know who I am,” Peter says, poking the burrito. His wristcuffs are there too, and he touches them carefully.

“I didn’t clean them,” Wade says. “I didn’t know what kind of poison you laced in them.”

Peter smiles. It’s not even poison--just Silk twisted into something that could be used as a weapon. The crash last night was as much from the Spidersilk he’d shot Natalia with as it was the adrenaline crash.

“How did you know?”

“Paid attention. You always showed up after a Spider kill. You never stayed long--and sometimes you were loud on the phone.”

He’s tense and Wade sighs. “I’m not looking to turn you in to the Doctor.”

“How do you know that’s who I’m running from?”

Wade gives him a smile twisted by scars, and slides his tablet across the table to Peter. “Because she’s dead and everyone heard your little message to the Doc before you took off.”

Peter considers that and then, “Why aren’t you turning me in? He’d pay.”

Wade smiles, gently, a heartbreaking thing. “Why didn’t you kill the Merchant?”

Peter looks at him.

Really looks.

And he can see it. He knows what love looks like. He knows how it makes the eyes shine, the smile soften, the way it turns helpless lips up and sadness tugs at the corner of the eyes.

“Oh,” he breathes.

~*~

 He eats, and Wade hovers over him until Peter forces him to sit down. It’s awkward, and there’s a part of him that wants to shove the other man, wants to bolt and find Tony, wants to run and run and run, until everything was left behind him.

“Do you think the Doctor would take me back, if I killed Tony?” he asks, late that night. Wade is painting his toenails, and Peter’s absently playing with his dagger.

Wade looks up at him, eyes patient and undemanding, and he realizes--he likes that.

Strange always wanted something, expected Peter to _do_ something, create some new drug, kill someone he wanted to dispose of. Tony watched him like he was made of spun glass, all fragile beauty that he wanted to devour and was afraid to destroy.

Wade just waits. Patient and knowing, and undemanding.

“Could you?”

Peter shakes his head. No.

No, and isn’t that the hardest part.

“It would be easier, if I could,” he mumbles and Wade hums in agreement.

“I’d do it for you,” he offers, grinning. “But I saw what you did to the last person who came for your Merchant.”

Peter smiles, reluctant and amused despite himself.

~*~

“What are you going to do, Spider-baby?” Wade asks, the second morning in the safe house. They’re eating breakfast burritos, and Peter’s anxious, his skin itching with the need to run, to find Tony or crawl back to Strange.

“I have to kill one of them,” he says, slowly. “The only way this ends is if I make a choice.”

“You already did, though,” Wade points out and Peter makes a face. The scarred veteran laughs, soundless and Peter closes his eyes, soaking in this quiet peace.

He did.

The first time he didn’t kill Tony--he made his choice.

“Sir will kill me,” he says, softly, and Wade makes a quietly distressed noise. “And Tony--I don’t even know if he wants me, now.”

“Maybe before you go hunting the Doctor--you should find out,” Wade suggests, his voice a whisper in the silence.

Peter closes his eyes.

~*~

He wonders, sometimes, if all love stories end bloody. He’s looked at it, every way he can--and there’s no end that doesn’t.

That isn’t the truth he’s struggling with.

It’s that--there was never any end but a bloody one. Not for them.

Not for him.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“There’s someone to see you, boss.” 

It’s FRIDAY, cutting through the quiet tension of the war room. The room has a deathly feel to it, a quiet as still as the grave. Gone is the lightness that came with the pretty boy who draped himself over the arm of Tony’s chair, gone is the smiles and softness in the Soldier and Captain.

The Merchant himself sits in shadows, apart from his generals, watching as they run his business, watching as they pour over plans. 

“I left orders to not be disturbed,” Tony says, eyes gleaming from the darkness, and Steve looks away, hiding his shudder by straightening. 

“Boss,” FRIDAY insists. “He’s from Peter.” 

It’s electric, the quiet pronouncement, and Tony rises, liquid smooth and deadly, prowls from the shadows to look at the display. 

There’s a man in the lobby of his tower. A scarred man with the bearing of a soldier and an air of danger, and dangling from his fist--a tiny pair of angel wings on a thin chain. 

~*~  

Wade Wilson is...dangerous. 

He sprawls indolent and uncaring at Tony’s table, his boots propped up, and a tiny golden necklace in his fingers, and Tony--

Tony cannot drag his eyes from it. It swings like a pendulum, and he remembers stringing it around Peter’s neck, remembers fucking him when Peter wore nothing but this thin gold collar and a pale pink blush. 

“Is he alive?” Tony asks, the question rough and rasping and  _ painful _ to force out. 

“He is,” Wilson answers, eyes bright on him. “Will he stay that way, if he comes out of hiding?” 

Behind him, the Soldier growls, low and furious and Tony feels an answering fury. 

“You’re opinion on Strange’s Spider is well known, Stark. And now you know--he crawled into your bed on his Doctor’s orders, and your life was his to take. You watched him kill, on the museum steps. If he comes out of the shadows--will you kill him for playing you a fool?” 

Tony stares at him--because it’s been almost a week, and he has his men tearing the city apart, looking for his fallen angel. 

But no one-- _ no one _ \--has dared ask this. 

“What is he to you?” Tony asks and Wade smiles, a sharp dangerous thing. 

“A friend.” He leans forward, and there’s a gun between them now, and a devil may care smile on his lips as Steve and Bucky respond, press their own weapons into his skull, and still his doesn’t waver, still his gaze remains pinned on Tony, his eyes avid and demanding. 

“Is he  _ safe?”  _

~*~ 

When Stephen Strange brought him home, a traumatized boy with shaking hands and a brilliant mind, he gave Peter free rein over the Sanctum.

It was a kindness, Peter thought. A dark and lovely playground for him to lose himself, the best kind of distraction. He gave him what he  _ needed,  _ to forget his grief, put Natasha in his path to teach him how to be dangerous, put the drug lab in his hands and let him create. 

He thought it was a kindness. 

Peter slips through the quiet Sanctum now, clinging to the shadows. There will be enough angry over Nat's death that even if the Doctor hadn't called for his death, he was wary of his reception. 

But he's a Spider, born in these halls and its easy, easy, easy to slip through unnoticed and unseen, slipping into Strange's rooms without any incident. 

He pauses, there, taking in the scarlet sheets and familiar bed, the messy desk and the coiled ropes and cuffs. 

The tempting little bottles of Silk. 

He shivers. 

Strange brought him here. When he had built an entire life around the Doctor and the Sanctum, when his drugs sung in Peter's veins and rage made his fingers itch to reach for a sharp, deadly blade--Strange brought him here.

“It was never kindness,” Peter murmurs, and looks up. “Was it?” 

Sir watches him, his eyes narrow and intent and assessing. “You never complained.”

“No,” Peter agrees, because he didn't. He  _ loved _ Strange, in his way. “But you weren't  _ kind. _ You were  _ creating.” _

Strange stares at him, and for the first time, Peter wonders what the man sees. 

If it's a sad broken boy or the deadly weapon he shaped. 

“Do you think Stark would have loved the creature you were?” Strange asks, stepping closer.

“He loves me as I am. He doesn't need me to be more than  _ me _ doesn't want to  _ shape  _ me,” Peter says, his voice shaking. 

“And you love him for that, when you loved me once, for seeing all you could be.” It's mocking, cutting. 

True. 

“You wrapped me up in spider silk, and gave me a knife, Sir. This shouldn't be a surprise.” 

His eyes glitter in the low lights and for a moment, a single shining second, Peter wishes this could end different. 

Sir smiles at him, soft and knowing and Peter brings the gun up, and fires.


	10. Chapter 10

He remembers the first time he saw Peter. 

Pale and beautiful and laughing. He was a vision in white and glinting gold highlights in the auburn hair that ate up the light. 

He wanted him. From the first moment he saw him, he  _ wanted _ Peter. Sweet and innocent, an angel in white in the middle of the black of his world. 

He wonders sometimes if any of that boy he wanted was real. If it was all carefully constructed to seduce him. 

It did. 

He fell for the pretty boy with warm wide eyes before he could ever think it’d be dangerous. 

~*~ 

The Merchant of Death walks into the Sanctum alone, not even his Captain and Soldier to guard his back. 

“That,” the Spider says, silky and cutting, “is either very brave or very stupid.” 

He’s sprawled on the bottom step of the large staircase that leads up and into the depths of the Sanctum.

He pauses, studying the boy--man--in a black suit and blood red button down, the man with cold, closed off eyes and a mocking smile twisting at his lips--he looks nothing like the boy he loved. 

“People in love are often  _ very _ stupid,” he says, his voice whisper soft. 

Peter’s gaze flickers, and he shifts, coming out of the sprawl, straightening up. “Still?” 

Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“It hasn’t been that long, has it, angel?” 

~*~ 

“He isn’t ready,” Wade says, patiently, his eyes hard. 

“It’s been five months,” Tony snarls, and Wade cocks his head. 

“Five measly months is too long for you to wait for him?” he asks. “Because if you aren’t willing to wait that long--you don’t deserve him.” 

Tony stills, his heart pounding, and Wade shakes his head. The scarred veteran is too familiar to him, now, the only contact Peter will allow. 

He hates him, almost as much as he is desperate for his news. 

“You love him,” Tony says, the truth he’s been content to ignore. 

Five months is a long time, he thinks. 

“What I feel doesn’t matter--it’s not why we’re here.” 

“But you do,” Tony says. 

Wade Wilson watches him. Patient and dangerous. 

His little angel attracted the strangest of men, Tony thinks. 

“Have him send word, when he’s ready,” he says, and Wade gives him something close to an approving smile. 

~*~ 

“You know who I am, now?” Peter says, standing. 

“You’re who you always were,” Tony answers, easily. He’s still and watching, waiting. Patient. 

Seven months of waiting. Seven  _ months.  _

“You’re the Spider,” he says, easily and Peter watches hims, anxiety glinting familiar in his dark eyes. “And I’m exactly who I always was.” 

Peter licks his lips, “Who is that?” 

Tony smiles, and steps into his space, dizzy with the warm familiar scent of him, with the heat of him. “I’m yours, baby. Always.” 

~*~ 

It's rough. 

It's almost  _ terrifying,  _ because sex with Peter has always been gentle, soft and warm and worshipful. 

This isn't that--this is desperation and  _ need _ , greedy hands clinging too tight, teeth dug into skin, a hand too tight on his cock and Peter, Peter, Peter. 

The heady groan he gives up when he presses down and takes Tony's cock, too soon, too fast, so tight it drags a snarl from Tony, almost feral and Peter meets it with a smirk he's never seen before, a smirk that's cocky and knowing and he almost comes from that, from the sharp edged danger glinting in his eyes.

This isn't the soft sex and worship of his angel, its not Peter soft and adoring under him. 

It's fucking and brutal and equals and Tony loves it. 

“I love you,” he gasps, as he comes. 

~*~ 

“So this is what you've been doing?” Tony asks, following as Peter leads him through the Sanctum. “Taking what the Doctor built?” 

Peter gives him a blank stare. “Yes,” he says, simply. 

Like it is. Like anything about either of them is. 

Tony smiles, because maybe they are. 

“And what about your Doctor? What happened to him?” The Merchant asks, his eyes sharp. 

The Spider smiles, all teeth and deadly promise. “I did.” 

~*~ 

The first time Peter thought about what he wanted, it hurt. 

He could never have it, couldn't keep the life he'd built within the Doctor's empire and keep Tony. 

Romeo and Juliet, he thought. Their love story could only end bloody. 

Unless--

He changed the rules. 

~*~

“They follow you?” Tony asks, and Peter, sprawled naked across his chest, shrugs. 

“None of them would follow Strange's pet boy. But the Spider? The Spider killed Black Widow and brought Thor and Loki to heel. The Spider killed the Doctor. They'll be loyal to that.” 

“Are you sure?” Tony asks, and Peter can see the worry in his eyes. 

He rolls up, straddles Tony and softens, his kiss gentle. “I promise,” he breathes. “I'm safe, Daddy. Wade wouldn't let anyone hurt me.” 

“He loves you,” Tony murmurs and Peter hums, licks into his mouth and rolls his hips down, and for a while, Wade Wilson and all the threats against them, are forgotten. 

~*~ 

“What do you want?” Peter asks and Tony smiles. 

“You, angel. Just you.” 

Peter blushes, pretty and charming and it's so strange to see that, and familiar too. 

“What do you want?” Tony asks, curiously. 

The Spider crawls behind Peter's eyes and his voice is distant and hungry. 

“I want the world. And you. I want  _ everything,  _ but only with  _ you.”  _

Tony blinks, his eyes stinging, and twists them, presses him into the bed and kisses him until Peter is whining and writhing and Tony fucks him quiet. 

~*~ 

The city is ruled over by two men. 

Tony Stark, the Merchant of Death, who flaunts his wealth and his criminal ties, who dares anyone to challenge him. He walks in sunlight, drenched in blood and money and untouchable. 

And Peter Parker, a quiet boy with ancient eyes that some whispered, killed without hesitation. Some called him the Spider, but softly, softly, too quiet for his scarred bodyguard to hear. He walks in shadows, because he likes them. Likes slipping unseen and underestimated. 

But always--they walk together. 

~*~

~*~ 

He watches the spider. He has always watched him. 

He watches the news and the quiet, carefully worded messages. 

_ I am safe. I am happy. Stay there, Sir. Don _ 't _ come back.  _

The man is scarred, a scar on his temple from a bullet, and on his trembling hands, old and faded and familiar. He sits in a quiet temple in Tibet and reads the message and smiles.  

Once, in another life, he was a doctor, a druglord, a lover. 

Now--now he is a quiet man in a quiet temple, with only memories and books for companionship. 

“Be happy, darling.”

He turns his eyes, sharp and assessing, to another city and smiles, looking at it and all he can create. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is fully plotted, and will be updated once or twice a week. I'm finally cross posting from Tumblr.


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